


Transcendent Joy.

by lightruined



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bloodplay, Eye Horror, F/M, Gore, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, Throne Sex, almost murder and sex oh my!, please let me know what else I have to tag.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22463977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightruined/pseuds/lightruined
Summary: Seduction is sweet in the carnage, and a song must end.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Transcendent Joy.

Ala Mhigo is on fire.

Ala Mhigo is burning, burning as its Warrior of Light dances with the dark, with the enemy. The throne hall within its walls, once a blank canvas now was drenched in crimson of Ala Mhigo’s fallen would-be liberators. Still, warm bodies, tremble and tremble on top of the stone of the ground. They are not yet dead. They listen and listen to the Warrior; Astrid, singing her dreadful melody of butchered freedom as Zenos yae Galvus tears and tears the song from her throat.

They waltz and waltz among her fallen friends, her fallen allies, her fallen loves; Zenos’ touch is not tender when nails sink into her hips. Crimson bloom and bloom like roses in the wake of winter when Spring says its greeting.

“ _Mine_ ,” he purrs and purrs, her voice faltering in its song. Astrid’s gaze is not wide, but half-lidded. Tan hands kissed by the sun, shove and shove at Zenos’ chest. Up, up, up the stairs they go. Regret and disgust do not consume her. The sun’s final, struggling rays of the day weep through the panes of the glass lining the wall of the large, cavernous throne room. Dusk ghosts against the horizon, colors of yellow fading to burning red as the inferno of battle consume all.

Ala Mhigo is burning, burning as desire overshadows honor.

The Alliance will not have a victory.

Astrid’s spidery fingers fumble and fiddle at heavy armor, as Zenos tears at her clothes.

_Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine._

With each stuttering beat of the heart, the word imprints itself within their minds as fingers seek to mark flesh.

Zenos wants to make her bleed.

_I want to make him bleed_ ; she thinks furiously when armor falls to the floor with a resounding clang.

She shoves and shoves at him, into the hard stone of his throne; _OR IS IT HER THRONE?_

He chuckles lowly, mirth lacing the cruel curve of his smile, when she lowers herself onto him—gasping, as hands splay to rest on either side of his head. Zenos traces the nasty, prominent scar reaching from her temple, with eager fingers, through to just below where her left, useless and blind eye is.

He gave her such a beautiful gift of such a horrifying, ugly scar.

She is his.

“You are _so_ beautiful,” he breathes, the brutal edge of his blade dragging and digging into scarred flesh of her face as her hips began its dance; a lone dance as he leans back into the throne. Pain, agony and suffering—pleasure, elation and glee, it bleeds into one and another as she wails, as she sings her dreadful song with a broken voice, when crimson drips, drips down her face. Zenos leans forward, the wet muscle of his tongue seeking the bloodied flesh of her cheek.

_More, more, more,_ she begs without desperate, frantic words spilling from her lips—when Zenos leaves a trail of wet, crimson-stained kisses from her bloodied temple, to her cheek until finally, his lips grace her neck. Her heart races and races underneath his mouth, as she rides him, harder and _harder_ —she does not sob when that blade of his, sinks into her blind, useless left eye. She refuses to cry when the monster she fucks draws the eye from its home. She laughs and laughs her broken laugh.

“Look at me,” he hums gently when she tears him apart among the beautifully harrowing, endless delight. Her sharp nails, tear at porcelain, perfect skin unmarred by the scars of war. His crimson along with hers drips down, _down_ in between her legs—it served to make his entrance far, _far_ easier as she gasps and sings her song between moans. She refuses to glance upon his horrifically beautiful face.

Ala Mhigo is dying and burning, as the Warrior of Light is claimed.

“ _LOOK AT ME!_ ” Zenos howls a howl that could sunder the heavens as the hand that digs into the bloody mass of the Ala Mhigan’s hip, ascends to sink into her cheek. His gaze is sharp, sharp as his own blades when he stares into blue, blue eyes as stormy as his own. His smile is merciless as the Primals’ rage when the eye on the sharp end of his blade—slips in between his lips.

“Die.” Astrid hisses, before her lips collide with Zenos’, tongue seeking passage in between his crimson-stained lips—and into his mouth—as he swallows.

“Die, die, die—” she cries into his mouth before he tears himself away—he leans upwards, to kiss away the salt of her tears from her remaining, wide eye. He drinks her tears like wine. He drinks her agony, like the fountain of eternal life as he joins her in her lone dance. His hands settle on her hips, as he demands a song from her when teeth graze against her shoulder.

“Loathe me more _. IT IS SWEET_ ,” Zenos whispers against her flesh—gentle kisses he leaves against her collarbone as hips roll again and again.

“ **YOU ARE MINE** ,” Astrid whispers deliriously, fiercely when fingers curl into his locks of the sunlight. Thighs further part as she rides, before she slams Zenos’ head against the stone backrest of the throne, again and again. She smiles through her agony, through her pleasure—as she feels crimson bleed from the back of his head. She feels how bone fractures and moans underneath her grasp. Zenos’ laughter is high and sweet and joins her mad, _MAD_ giggles when he meets his release.

She has yet to reach that final threshold.

Ala Mhigo is burning and dying, as Astrid fucks the devil.

The fire, the fire of disgusting desire dances across the bottom of her stomach. She is so, so close—this dance will end soon, and she so prefers their dance of battle instead of the dance of the flesh. She wishes and wishes she made him bleed differently. She wishes she let her healing winds tear at him, to let stone collide with him. To let him seek her with the steel of his blades—not this. _NOT THIS,_ among a throne room filled with the cold corpses of her allies—of Ala Mhigo’s best and strongest.

SHE BETRAYED THEM.

SHE IS NOT SORRY.

_SHE IS NOT SORRY._

A shudder rolls through her spine when her cries meet their crescendo—a final roll of the hips, as her release is met. Legs tremble and tremble with the waves that follow thereafter.

The darkness of night falls. The dim torchlight fixed to each column of the throne room, flickers and dies.

Darkness consumes, as Astrid falls limp against Zenos; a bloodied mess they are. Zenos’ eyes flutter to a close as Astrid smiles against flesh.

“You are mine, my beast,” He whispers into her ear.

That sweet, low voice of his is the last thing she hears before she slips into unconsciousness. Agony and elation bleed from her in the crimson pouring from the hollow socket of her eye; from the lesions of adoration that Zenos gave her.

THIS IS ZENOS’ LOVE.

RUINATION.

Ala Mhigo is nothing.


End file.
